Long par 4
Dog leg left
Lush green fairway
Long steep hill
Mountain capped by an area for putting.

The little boy was only ten
Nickname: Metty
Tiger of a tyke
Sixty-five pounds
Soaking wet
A four-foot runt.

Dad’s golf bag weighed thirty-one pounds
Stood three feet tall.

Lugging the golf bag up the 2nd hole
Murder by iron and leather.

Barely lift it
Sling it forward
Dump it down

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

Dad said the bag built character
The small whippersnapper swore quietly
Older brother Chip had taught him the words
The older brother had schlepped the bag up the 2nd hole too
Now the torch was passed.

Groan. Swish. Bump.

All day
6,262 yards
The little nipper humped Dad’s golf bag around the golf course
Week after week
Month after month
For two years.

A young brunette, kicks off her black spikes. Sits. She crosses her long smooth tanned legs under a tight silky black skirt that rises well above mid thigh. The whift of intoxicating perfume wafts in the air.

Alone, out on the Argentina La Pampas, broad-brimmed leather hat brim bowed low over his bushy moustache against the biting, blowing snow, the old grey-haired Gaucho slowly plowed through the deep drifts on horseback. Warm wool pancho trying to protect his wrinkled body.

“Damn, seven cattle still missing, the aging Gaucho said to himself.” “I’m an old throwback.”

“All the other Gauchos drive around in warm trucks looking for their cattle.